


The Living Dead

by ThisisVenereVeritas



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, Flashbacks, M/M, Sex, Smoking, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:49:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29783268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisisVenereVeritas/pseuds/ThisisVenereVeritas
Summary: Escape was only the beginning. After that, comes the difficulty of not being able to move on.A series of oneshots centered on Melmord and Magnus, alive after escaping Mordhaus, but in constant fear of returning.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Charles Foster Offdensen, Magnus Hammersmith/Melmord Fjordslorn
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	The Living Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, another series. Also, rated M for now, but expect things to turn E once it picks up (or if someone determines the smut too graphic). I'll be real, I'm terrible w/ratings. 
> 
> Special thanks to massive melm/mag waves drowning me with inspiration. Comments and kudos much appreciated.

_Fall chills had threatened them the past week, and it was the faraway howls of yard wolves barking and alerting their prey of their impending wake, did the end of a promising autumn welcome Melmord with a horrendous bite that tore up his spine and rattled his miserable core. After nearly three days of silence, the enemy caught up with them, and this time they brought reinforcement: vicious guard dogs and the screams of bullets now raged echoes across the haunting air, making each rapid breath more chilling and terrifying._

_Running lost its purpose. Melmord couldn’t make north from south, and with the sun rising and clouds milking across the dreary sky, couldn’t rely on the constellations–not that Melmord had bothered with memorizing them anyhow. Stomach wracked with pangs from feasting on ice water made the attempt to outrun the howls of distant gunshots a hellish drag. His energy was low, and for the past few days, felt as though he was running on fumes, the meager hope that he would leave Mordhaus’ vast territory alive._

_The smell of mist pervaded his senses. Thick fog and growling rapids led Melmord further down a massive hill. Water clung to his face and skin, weighed down his filthy, ruined outfit as he gasped for air, coughed and fought his burning lungs for more time, just one more step._

_The hounds call grew closer._

_The frightening roar of water raging in the distance._

_The sun glowers over the sharpened tips of the woods, and Melmord stood before a cliff overlooking a waterfall, at what felt like the edge of the earth. Heart and lungs numb from the bitter air, and water-filled stomach cramping at the thought of inhaling a drop more, Melmord let out a desperate rattle._

_This is it, he thought, eyes wide and red at the terrifying bellows now surrounding him._

_Gunfire, dogs, or waterfall._

_Quick. Slow. Jump and experience it all over again._

_Melmord stepped forward, leaned near the edge of the cliff, and stared down towards certain death._

_This is it._

… 

The alarm initiates the day with the cheery commentator summing up the name of this week’s top ten country hits. An acoustic guitar begins to strum its slow, rich melody, and Melmord tears away from wrinkled sheets stained with his sweat. The ceiling fan accompanies the groan of the old, spring mattress as he turns, kicking up parachutes of tangled bedsheets off from him as part of the morning ritual. When he’s sitting upright, Melmord glances at his reflection hanging from the closet door. With just the light peeking through the crooked, partly broken blinds, Melmord spots the shadows under his eyes. Watching his mirrored form, he reaches for his vape pen, one of the few reassuring pleasantries in his world, and brings it up to his lips.

Sweet nicotine, coconut and pineapple alert him the day’s begun. The fan above rattles, sends a soft click and jingle from its chain, and Melmord contemplates another ten minutes in bed. Lord knows he cannot sleep on his own, but the mystifying call of his cushiony prison beckons him. Or maybe it’s Dolly Parton? A delicate trail of warm vapor spills out as he utters a tired chuckle, sluggishly brings himself to a stand, and starts tidying up the bed. He straightens up the sheets, fluffs up the pillows, tucks away a knife under one and folds the comforter down to the foot of the bed, confident that everything will dry and cool by the time his other pleasantry arrives home.

In the dark, Melmord checks the time again. Forty-five minutes to powder his nose and make breakfast-dinner. Check the trip wires to see if anyone’s come near. Then the security camera. 

With a yawn, Melmord goes through the motions of visiting the few windows leading out of the single-wide mobile home. These days, it takes only a few minutes of lifting a few blinds, staring out and finding the occasional jack rabbit, a neighbor walking their dog, or, if Melmord’s lucky, the distant and flat landscape of outer Vegas, the blue sky giving way to the fine line that will eventually shift into the sun. The promising sign of another day. This morning, Melmord stays by the window in the second bedroom turned office, bottom lip wet from constant licking after spotting the simple tripwire alarm hidden above the gravel foundation, now undone.

Coyote, he thinks, but Magnus’ firm voice calmly informs him to check the security cameras before jumping to any conclusions, no matter how likely. The desire to leave the office for a pot of fresh, strong coffee must wait. Melmord turns on the monitor and proceeds through the daily routine, rapidly types the week’s current password, and logs into the home’s security system. Cameras for a mobile home. There was a period where Melmord laughed at the idea, a phase where he insisted on more than just cameras, a brief stint where there was enough money between them, and Melmord wondered if they could upgrade.

These days, the cameras are just a show, a drop in the bucket of steps needed to adequately build a defense. The trip wire’s another drop, one about to break into vapors under a vigilant magnifying glass. The guns hidden under their mattress, the couch and kitchen table…a nice, wet loogie to Offdensen’s face, but nothing more. Melmord’s aware of this precarious situation, and became alert of their paper-thin line of resistance against the most powerful corporation on the planet early in their routine, but still proceeds out of habit. He stares at the four squares, starting with the front porch, back door entrance, the one aimed at the gated entryway leading out to the main road, and the last towards the Mojave.

He smashes rewind, and his nerves strain, focus on the few flickers of the camera and sort through the first as a rabbit, another the same, large rat that’s mastered the art of maneuvering around Magnus’ makeshift traps, and a large, hairy spider. Melmord keeps his finger pressed, eyes unwavering. Body frozen until he locates his trespasser. He finally releases the buttons when the camera hits midnight, and he sees some mangy creature stumble into their graveled territory, strike the wire with its front paw before the sound of cans hitting the ground startles it away. Melmord rests at the sight, grabs his pen and takes another soothing hit while the black and white image of the coyote scampers off and away from the camera’s view. Satisfied, Melmord deletes the footage, relieved that another night’s gone by without any new, suspicious faces wandering about.

Melmord packs the gun kept hidden in the small living room into his pants before heading out to reset the tripwires. The cool desert air embraces his half-dressed form, blows a crisp, harsh breeze across his scarred chest barely covered with a still-damp tank top. His legs shudder, flip flops grind against the gravel flooring as he carefully makes his way to the single tree set with the burden of waking him or Magnus up with its basic alarm. This many days in, and Melmord still wonders why he bothers. Again, the trap is painfully simplistic against the minds of a trained gear, and if the nightmares don’t wake him up, no set of rusty cans will.

 _Gives him peace of mind,_ Melmord reminds himself, then hoists the cans up the branch, and tightens the twine back into the place. 

Coffee comes next. Then, as it's brewing, a hot shower. It’s just enough to wake Melmord up, clear his mind from the memory of cold, raging water to the controlled, steady stream hitting his face. He shuts his eyes and sees the massive drop of a gigantic waterfall begin to turn gray with age. The sensation remains as he waits for the sounds of the hounds to go mute, the gunfire to cease fire, and when Melmord opens his eyes, realizes the water heater is ready to give and dips out to prepare breakfast.

It’s nearly seven when he turns on the stove. Melmord tosses eggs, peppers, onions and tiny, cheap sausages that’ll shrivel into jerky once they hit the heat, into a single pan. As the room fills with the wonderful smell of beef, garlic and salt, Melmord turns to the kitchen table, spots the sharpie, and grabs it. He stares at his phone. Almost seven. Melmord places the sharpie into his back pocket, and waits.

The feeling of dread arrives one minute past seven, right on time. Melmord keeps to the kitchen, continues through the monotony expected of him, but returns to the lip-licking, nail-biting and visits the window as the sun starts to rise without Magnus. Maybe he’s held up at work, Melmord rationalizes, or perhaps he got stuck in traffic? Accidents happen all the time in Vegas. Another minute crawls by. The sharpie burns in his pocket, and right as Melmord starts to rub the cap, the growl of a car’s engine pulls him out from his seat. Melmord knows it’s tune, but still peers out the window, just to be sure.

The only other reason to wake up and face the day finally arrives. The anxiety dies down, and as Melmord breaks from the window to grab some plates, listens the heavy step of boots hitting the gravel, the creak of the porch, and the loud whine of the screen door from a large hand uncaringly swinging it open.

Melmord plasters a collected smile and grabs a set of plates. “Mornin’, _Sunshine_. You bring home any bacon?”

Magnus grunts a noise, then tears off a large, heavy-duty jacket and tosses it on the couch, followed by the top of his uniform, his belt. When he’s down to just his pants, he heads into the kitchen, frees his hair from the band keeping it up; then, once his hair is toppled over his shoulders, greets Melmord by the counter.

“Hey,” Magnus returns, watching Melmord fill the plates with their scrambled mash.

“Hello,” Melmord parrots back, stopping to offer a plate to Magnus. Instead, his smile meets the formation of Magnus frown, pressed tightly against his lips. 

It takes a second for the kiss to shift from a moment of instantaneous, immediate relief for Melmord’s safety, to something far more refined and complex. Melmord never says it, still pretends to not notice the first few seconds where he feels Magnus’ frown struggle to not shift into a minor sob, or mouth a “thank god” or “you’re still here.” He closes his eyes against the older man’s thin line, and Melmord lets his smile take the lead and helps guide Magnus to follow suit. They’re several months into this pattern, but still, this is the part Melmord savors the most.

“You sleep well?” Magnus asks a few minutes later, in between hungry smacks and chews.

“As well as any other night,” Melmord replies, taking a stab at a pile of slightly overcooked eggs and sausage links. He raises his stare and sees Magnus still eyeing him, expression grim. “Don’t tell me: I got crow’s feet.”

“You look tired.”

“Haven’t had my coffee yet,” Melmord says, pointing at his neglected cup. “C’mon, Mags. You expect me to eat without you? After all this time? I’m offended.”

Magnus responds with a fork stabbing at his meal.

“Next time I’ll shake it up with orange peppers.” Melmord grabs his cup and nurses a sip. It’s bitter and black. _Just like the music industry_ , he keeps telling himself he’ll say one day, to spark up the morning conversations. It’s dark enough to earn a snicker from Magnus, but music still proves a touchy subject. Melmord knows Magnus is exhausted, and prefers his mornings a silent transmission from work to slumber, for however he can enjoy it before the repetitious doldrums taking the form of bills and prescriptions, rent and groceries, call him up to repeat the cycle.

That, or a nightmare.

Morning desert light breaks through the kitchen blinds, hitting Melmord in the back. As he takes another sip, his eyes rest on Magnus sitting perpendicular to him. The best time of the day is when the sun hits his tired face and, for a few seconds, Melmord sees Magnus without a care in the world. That rare, prestigious moment where his mind’s a blank, consumed only with the thought of cramming calories into his mouth, when his dark brown eye rises, glows a brilliant hue of amber. It’s a pool of decadent, royal honey, and Melmord, enraptured, rethinks the nightmare from before, counts the days since he’s had to face the waterfall, red dots aimed at his and Magnus’ chest, and experiences nothing short of gratitude. It’s a whole new day since they’ve jumped, and thinking about it still dries his throat and makes staring longer at Magnus’ brightened form, his rich brown eye now aimed at him, sting Melmord’s beholden heart.

It’s a moment in time he’s grateful for, each day it arrives, and even though Melmord could stare forever, breaks away from admiring and turns to the calendar hanging just above their table. He pulls the sharpie from his pocket and, after playing with the cap, pops it off and offers the thick tip to Magnus.

He rolls his eyes at him. Melmord snickers, then brings the ink pen to the calendar and crosses another day.

Breakfast ends when Magnus announces he’s going to take a shower. Melmord deals with the dishes, picking up after Magnus, and rearranges the locations for two of the guns hidden in their tiny home. He makes sure to knock lightly and let Magnus know the weapons’ new whereabouts. Melmord then checks his emails for job offerings that don’t arrive, and settles for another month of odd jobs and catering hookups. Whatever pays the water bills, he tells himself. Agency in Vegas is a shit show anyways. Imagine trying to manage a call girl, or dancer. It’s for the best, he tries to convince himself. Anything decent would likely end up on Offdensen’s radar, anyways.

“How was work?” Melmord asks aloud once he hears Magnus slip out of the shower, and into the hallway.

“Monotonous,” echoes a reply. A slight pause, and Melmord sits still, listening to the floor creak as Magnus leans from one side to the next. “Did you–” 

“Coyote hit the wire at midnight. That’s all.”

He hears Magnus peering out of the hall, into the living room. “Nothing else?”

Melmord looks over his shoulder. There’s droplets of water hanging from those luscious, brown and peppered curls, and the wrinkles from before are less prominent. It’s almost been a year, and Magnus remains on edge, waiting for some bad news to arise. Still, even with traces of concern sprinkled across his exhausted form, Magnus looks better than he did yesterday, and the day before. The sun’s hot rays scatter across the cluttered atmosphere, and Melmord watches the water flow down Magnus’ collarbone, slow against coarse chest hairs and scarred terrain.

“Melmord?” 

Melmord combs his hair back, then greets Magnus’ stare with a heated grin.

“If something happened, I wouldn’t be here, would I?” he asks, and watches Magnus recoil slightly at the suggestion. A mere twitch of the eye that lets Melmord know the bastard cares, but like a hungry carnivore, Melmord fixes on that weakness, and challenges Magnus with a stuck-out tongue. “Tell me about work, man,” he says, giving the empty cushion next to him a pat. “You finish any pages of the Sudoku puzzle book I got you?”

* * *

The great thing about old mattresses is that they hold no secrets. Magnus imparts his struggle into the springs, unleashing quivers and groans that vibrate underneath him and Melmord, drenching the room in a wild mixture of throes. First, the bed, but once Melmord slips all the way in, gets the first uneven notes from Magnus, the gritted teeth and his names heaved under an airy gasp. Magnus still proves a tight fit, and when Melmord brings himself close and pushes deep into that wet, soft embrace, starts singing out the older man’s name between labored moans and hisses from nails scraping his back.

The walls are thin, the bed almost as loud as they are, but Melmord figures the neighbors deserve to know there’s an oasis in the middle of these dead lands, a glimmer of hope in the outskirts of a treacherous desert. And if Offdensen is still out there, listening, then all the better. Let Magnus growling his name through clenched teeth, arched back and shaking legs fill Charles’ imagination with every god awful, graphic image he can summon. Let the pained groans of the shaking bed, nails scraping sheets and skin, and Melmord chanting Magnus’ name as he peaks, haunt the bastard the same way he continues to do with them. If not, let the noise drown out their worries, discussions about procuring another set of weapons, or talks about moving to yet another hole in the middle of nowhere, for a taste of a delicious, but fleeting high. Melmord feels Magnus shudder around him, coating his cock in a slick hug that turns greedy, rapid and unpredictable. 

Climax rings in their ears, drenches their senses and makes the world go numb.

Unwilling to let go, Melmord holds Magnus close and keeps him ensnared, allows himself the selfish desire to remain tucked in that blissful warmth a few minutes longer.

The chain hanging from the bedroom’s ceiling fan jingles, the only constant in an otherwise silent room. It keeps Melmord alert and from falling prey to Magnus’ slowing exhales. The want for sleep is at its highest, coffee be damned. Magnus’ once labored breath draws to a gentle rhythm, a soft hum that promises Melmord a restful sleep, but one glance at his phone alerts him he has less than an hour before work. 

“What time is it?” Magnus asks right as Melmord tries returning to that wonderful state of ignorance and stupor.

“Five past nine.”

The second he hears himself say it, Melmord grasps with the sad reality that playtime is over. The sheets underneath them are damp again, and when Melmord parts from Magnus, feels the once comforting grip around him now get hit with the conflicting, arid heat wafting in the bedroom. Magnus rolls on his side as Melmord stands to tuck himself back into his pants. Long fingers tug at the belt strap, and when Melmord meets them, watches Magnus point to the vape pen resting on the nightstand.

Melmord tosses him the pen, then reaches for his shirt on the floor. “Want me to set the alarm for three?”

“One.” The bed creaks. Melmord rises and sees tropical fumes vanish into the air, leaving behind a pungent aftertaste. Cringing, Magnus raises the pen back to him. “I’ve a commission.”

“Look at you, big money maker,” Melmord says with a chuckle. He snatches up Magnus’ phone lying at the foot of the bed, and taps away. “Sure four hours is enough?”

Magnus stares. “Don’t you have work in a bit?”

Melmord gets the hint. “I’ll leave you to it.”

There’s no point in being overly sentimental after a quickie, especially when Melmord knows he’ll see Magnus soon, but after he puts on a black tie, stares at his catering uniform with a cynical grin, returns to Magnus for a final cuddle, a little reminder that his current existence has a purpose; if not for himself, then to the man that dragged him cross one hell so that they could fry together in another in peace. Long arms entangle around his stiffened clothes, and while Magnus faces him, half-awake, Melmord considers that, maybe, _this_ really is it. No more Offdensen, and no more running. Magnus kisses his chapped lips, beard grinding against Melmord’s messy chin. He shuts his eyes and tries remembering the last time the two of them spotted a gear not busy handing out flyers, the last time they left the house without a disguise. Surely, they can’t keep their defenses up forever? Magnus must know, with nearly a year since their grand escape, that if Offdensen knew their location, would’ve sent a team to capture or kill them months ago?

Why stall the wait? Why pretend neither cared? 

After the kiss, Magnus returns to his side, eyes lidded, but a hand still tucked under his pillow, where he keeps a knife.

Melmord hovers near the bedroom door, unsure if it’s just him that’s ready to move on. “Want me to lock the windows or the screen door?”

“No,” Magnus answers, back facing Melmord. A few seconds pass, then he turns around again. “Be safe.”

“Always am,” Melmord replies, breaking into a soft smile as Magnus watches him slowly back into the hall. “Sweet dreams.”

He leaves the bedroom swiftly, weight fixed at the front of his toes to avoid making too much sound. Melmord dons a pair of shades resting near the entrance before elbowing the front and screen door open. He jangles his key into the lock, lifting and twisting before remembering Magnus’ words, and leaves it unlocked for better or worse. The desert’s heat smacks him in the face the moment he turns and faces the day. He suckles the tip of his pen, tasting pineapple flavoring as he makes his way to the car, his addiction livening his dry mouth with a near constant roll of his tongue.

The village is quiet at this hour. Aside from a few neighborhood delinquents juggling cans of spray paint, it’s a ghost town with just a few roaming pets going up and down the narrow, dusty road stretching across the span of several dozen mobile homes. To this day, Melmord counts the number of salmon or mint colored homes, and is thankful so many of his neighbors can barely see past six feet, much less chase him down with weapons skillfully directed at him. Hard to be fearful when so many of them rely on walkers, or offer him a couple of twenties in exchange for him retiling their roofs, a batch of oatmeal cookies for several minutes of Melmord’s time. Were this another period of his life, Melmord would’ve considered taking advantage of their gullibility, but these days he’s thankful for whatever treats or spare change Geraldine or Dolores offer him.

Across the street, a dog barks. Birds collect on top of an overgrown pile of prickly pear cactuses. The sun rises higher, evaporating small, lonesome clouds into nothingness. There’s a sickly-sweet smell in the air, not quite unlike maple syrup. An oil spill, perhaps? Melmord grimaces at the thought, wrinkles his nose as he fiddles with his keys, pen tightly clutched between his lips.

As he kneels to check the underside of his car, a distinct, audible _click_ sounds his alarm. Melmord freezes, eyes straining as he stares at the dent in his car door, unsure if it’s the sound of ammo being loaded into a magazine or a finger turning off the safety trigger, readjusting and aiming the barrel at the back of his head. Really, after all this time? Melmord inwardly cowers. His stomach, full of oils, flops and turns sick. He shuts his eyes, swallows thickly and, dropping his pen, turns to face the source of his misery.

Behind him, his newest neighbor sits in her rocking chair, metal needles hard at work and hitting one another as she knits another row. Melmord shakes, feels his pits drench his top as he settles on her form. The fear bubbling in his gut settles with an acidic pop, and as Melmord starts to wipe the cold sweat now collecting across his neck and brow, watches his neighbor stop her rocking and current project to smile and send a friendly wave.

Some things never change.


End file.
